


Enemy Number One

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Jealous!Sherlock, John is a competent pathologist, M/M, Pathologist!John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock is jealous AF, trash!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Anderson finally crosses a line and gets fired a new pathologist takes his place. Sherlock isn't happy to find that the new doctor is almost as good at his job as Sherlock is. Said new doctor, John Watson, wants to woo the genius until he finds out what a prick he can be. Then he's just amused. And maybe a bit fond. And kind of smitten. Then he falls in love with the prick. Bloody hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Morning Boner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts), [Le_Tabby_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tabby_Cat/gifts), [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts).



> Welcome back!! Hope you guys like the idea for my new fic. Can't wait to see what you think!

He was losing his mind. Most of it was gone already.

The best mind of his generation was leaking from his skull and gathering in a soupy pool on the floor. He could feel it. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Dearie," Mrs Hudson said with concern, "you really need to shower."

"The dead don't shower, Mrs Hudson," he replied.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Then at least have something to eat," she tried.

"The dead don't eat."

"And the dead don't tidy up the flat either, I see," the woman said under her breath as she got ready to hoover.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He slipped away into his mind palace as she began, walking down a long hall and entering his study. The boxes he opened, the ones that contained his favourite cases, were empty. One after the other he removed the lids to find nothing there. The lights were going out around him and the last one extinguished as he slid to the floor and closed his eyes.

_____

He was racing down the stairs an hour later, on his way to the first case with the Met in over a month, when Mrs Hudson caught his arm and turned him around.

"Take a shower, love. You smell," she said calmly.

He scrunched up his nose and ascended the stairs with a growl, leaving a trail of clothes behind as he made his way to the loo. His hair was a rat's nest and when he caught a glimpse of it in the mirror he had to admit, if only to himself and very much NOT out loud, that Mrs H had been right. He stepped into the shower without removing his socks and sighed loudly.

It took two intense latherings to get all the oil out of his hair and by the time he was clean his skin was reddened from the heat of the water and the desperation to get out and on with his day. He dried and brushed his teeth as Mrs Hudson went into his bedroom and picked him out a new outfit. How the woman had become so comfortable with him he had no idea, he usually kept people at arm's length.

"Fresh clothes on the sofa. I'm heading downstairs so I don't have to see your bits," she said through the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pushed a bit of product through his hair and tousled it carefully. 

She'd picked out a dark suit and white shirt for him and brought the clothes he'd left along the way to the shower into his room. He pulled out a fresh pair of socks and pants and got dressed as quickly as possible, running out the door once suitably stripped of his nudity and hailing a cab.

_____

John Watson had settled into his new job fairly well, pretending to make friends and thinking it was working. He'd thought there might be some resistance to him being there, as the last bloke that held the job had been a staple for many years and left in a state of disgrace that some didn't feel he deserved, but John was charming and soon had most of the women swooning and most of the men calling him 'Doc'. All in all it was a comfortable transition.

The only problem was that he was bored. Not with the job, of course, he'd never tire of examining a dead body, but with his life. Sure, he had no problem getting a good shag, but he wasn't the sort women tried to settle down with. At least, after they got to know him. He'd never been very good at relationships. He was good at sex, though. Very good. That let him get away with a lot if not for very long.

He got the text from Greg Lestrade, a boss that felt more like his only mate, at half six and showered quickly before slathering two pieces of toast with butter and jam and heading out for the day. He caught a cab to the address he'd been given and met Greg on the street.

"Coffee," Greg said, passing over a cup of the blessedly strong stuff.

"Ta," John said before taking a sip of it too soon and burning the tip of his tongue. "What've we got?"

"Not exactly sure," Lestrade explained. "One body inside."

"Might as well get on with it, then," John said, taking another sip of the coffee with a wince and getting into a full cover suit.

Once he'd made it into the building and found the body he had everything covered but his hair, gloved hands ready for action. He knelt next to a man who looked about his age and Sally sidled up next to him. She was the one John had been really worried about winning over, as she'd had a fairly well know affair with the man he replaced, but she seemed to think he was alright and that was the most he could ask for.

"Morning," she said gruffly.

"Morning," John replied. 

"Take a look at the bloke's tongue," she added.

John opened the man's mouth and saw that his tongue was mottled with black. He'd seen this in a book back in uni, when he was still planning on being a surgeon before the bullet tore through him and ended all that. It was a poison from the amazon, strangely enough. He'd seen the pictures in one of those books on rare deaths and they hadn't left his mind, even fifteen years later.

"We need to see if he or any of his acquaintances have been to the Amazon lately. Poison caused the tongue to look like that, and the respiratory arrest. Look for trips to Peru or around there," John said.

Sally wrote it down in her notebook and John looked over the body for several more minutes before deciding the rest could be done by his team and stripping out of the protective gear. He joined Greg at the kerb and picked his coffee back up. By then it was cold. He cursed the winter air and sighed deeply, about to explain what he'd found to Greg when a cab pulled up.

"Jesus," Greg said. "How the hell did he find out?"

"Good morning Detective Inspector," the tall man who emerged said, removing his gloves and looking over at John, "and lackey."

"Good morning to you, too," John said licking his lips and puffing out his chest.

The man looked at him strangely. "Not lackey. Doctor. Past military service and a shoulder injury that acts up in extreme cold. You'll want to take an anti inflammatory."

John was shocked into silence as the man strode away and into the building. He turned to Greg and cocked his head to the side.

"I saw the way you looked at him," Greg said. "Hands off. For your own sake."

John snorted and took another sip of his coffee before remembering how it had gone cold and chugging the rest as fast as he could.

"Who the hell is he?" He asked once he'd got over the taste.

"That's Sherlock Holmes. He helps us out from time to time. I didn't tell him about the case," Greg said with a sigh

"He's...interesting," John said.

Greg punched him in the shoulder and rolled his eyes as Sherlock came bustling out of the building, smug look on his face.

"Just a small little poison derived from a plant that grows in the Amazon," he said, putting his gloves back on. "You'll want to see if any of his known associates have recently been to Peru or the surrounding areas."

Sally walked up next to him and beamed at John. John was still watching Sherlock's lips so he'd missed everything the man had said. His lips were gorgeous.

"Afraid Watson beat you to it," Sally said as she raised an eyebrow to Sherlock.

"Watson?" Sherlock spit, his head moving back in disgust and seven or so of his chins making an appearance.

"Yeah," Sally said, nodding towards John. "Our new pathologist."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he hissed, "you. How did you...no, never mind, I don't need to know. Good luck finding the perpetrator without me."

John watched him storm off and turned to Greg. "Bit of a drama queen."

"You have no idea," Greg said with a sigh.

_____

An hour later Sherlock had printed out the photos of the new pathologist that he'd got from the CCTV cameras covering the scene and was holding them in shaking hands. 

He took the biggest knife he could find and stuck them to the wall with a vicious stab. 

Dr John Watson. Enemy number one.


	2. Bedside Manner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John have a pint.
> 
> Sherlock shows up to look at the body again.

That night after Greg had finished the preliminary paperwork and John had finished tucking the dead body into bed at the morgue for the night they met up at the Fox and Hound for a pint and to talk over their week. Greg got there first and was half way through his first drink when John came in, taking off his gloves and sidling up to him in the back of the bar.

A waitress came by and took John's order, smiling flirtingly at him the whole time and then only charging him half. Greg shook his head and took a long swallow of John's pint.

"Oi!" John said jokingly, "buy yourself another!"

Greg settled back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I could afford more if I only had to pay half price. How on earth do you do that?"

"Not at all sure what you mean," John said, taking the drink as the girl brought it to him and sending her away with a salacious wink.

"You really are a bastard," Greg said as he held his hand up for another stout.

"This morning-" John started.

"No," Greg said, fully aware of what he was going to ask.

"-when you said hands off-"

"I meant it," Greg interrupted again.

"Because of personal reasons?" John asked.

Greg's eyebrows attempted a merger and he huffed out a surprised laugh. "Christ, no. No way in hell I'd sleep with Sherlock. My life is trouble enough just with seeing him on the job, let alone the prospect of cheating on my wife with him!"

"Who, then?" John asked. "Not Sally, obviously, but someone's got to be taking advantage of that gorgeous arse."

"You really are another breed. No one in their right mind would get involved with Sherlock. He thinks we're all idiots anyhow," Greg replied, the truth of the matter always stinging just a bit. He was very good at his job, after all, just not as good at his job as Sherlock.

"So he's single?" John asked.

Greg's only answer was to let his head hit the table with a small thump.

_____

At three that morning Greg's mobile rang. He rolled into a sitting position on his sofa and answered it, eyes still partially closed.

"This is Lestrade," he said, voice rough with sleep.

"You won't find out who did it without me. I need to see the body again," came a clear voice from the other end of the line. 

"Sherlock, did you seriously call me in the middle of the bloody night to tell me you wanted on the case?" Greg said, laying back down.

"Is it late?" Sherlock asked. Greg could hear rustling in the background and then Sherlock's voice again. "My apologies. The fact still remains, though."

"You can see the body again tomorrow if you let me get back to sleep," Greg said with a yawn.

"Good. Good," Sherlock mumbled. "But I won't work with him. Find me someone else."

"Absolutely not," Greg said forcefully. "He's the one in charge of the body so you'll try to manage to be less of a prick tomorrow or you'll stay away."

"What about Molly?" Sherlock asked.

"So you can take samples without me knowing? No way," Greg said.

"What about Anderson?" Sherlock asked, head spinning a bit. Maybe he should get some sleep.

"Jesus, Sherlock! You were the reason he was fired. You can't just go around causing havoc and then wonder why things don't go your way. You hate him anyhow," Greg said.

"I hate how stupid he is," Sherlock said, "there's a difference."

"And you hate how clever Dr Watson is, is that it?" Greg asked.

There was a click and then the warm tone that let Greg know he could go back to bed and he tried very hard to do so.

Across town Sherlock stomped across the room to the pictures of John on the wall and tore one down. He brought it to the desk and used a spare biro to scratch John's eyes out then took a pair of scissors and cut his head off. It made him feel a little better so he taped the head back on and cut it off again. Then once more for good measure before he went to sleep himself.

_____

The next morning around six John rolled out of bed and walked right into a wall. 'Ah,' he thought, 'not home.' He looked around to find the new secretary for the morgue asleep on her side, breathing gently and hair a mess. He took a deep breath and wandered around the small flat until he found the loo.

He showered quickly, knowing now that he'd have to stop at home if he wanted a fresh pair of pants and a shave, then brushed with her toothbrush and slipped back into his clothes from the night prior.

"John," she asked, rolling onto her side.

"Mmm," John said. "Gotta go. Last night was nice. We should, um, yeah, we should do that again."

She fell back asleep and he thanked everything holy that he didn't have to set a tentative date for the next time, not at all sure whether he'd really want that again. She was funny and sweet and had a glorious mouth but he saw her getting attached too quickly if he continued down that lane. Better to cut it off now before he had to answer her questions at work in front of everyone.

He caught a cab home and stripped immediately, shaving and putting on deodorant while he listened to the three voice mails he'd missed late the night before. All three were from his sister, in varying degrees of drunkenness, and all he could understand was that she was pissed about something he'd said about their mum when he was twenty. In any case it wasn't anything he needed to call back about so he redressed and got his things and headed back out the door feeling a bit more put together.

The cabbie he managed to hail was handsome. He was middle eastern and had a brilliant smile. In the fifteen minutes it took to get to work John managed to charm a phone number out of him and a promise for a drink later that week. He tipped the man generously and licked his lips before leaving the cab.

He was still thinking about the cabbie when he walked into the hallway to find the man he now knew as Sherlock Holmes leaning against the door to the morgue and tapping away on his mobile. His thoughts thereafter were wholly consumed by the genius.

"You're late," the man pouted.

"I'm on my own schedule," John said with a small smile. "So I come in when I want."

"Well, then you're later than I wanted you to be," Sherlock shot back, speaking and moving out of the way without looking up from his mobile.

"Perhaps you should have made an appointment with me like all the other consultants do," John said, unlocking the door and holding it open for the man.

"Lestrade has other consultants?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"No," John replied, flicking on a light switch, "but if he did they'd know enough to make an appointment."

Sherlock frowned at him, apparently unamused, and John went to put on a pot of coffee in the break room. Sherlock followed him like a shadow and sat on the countertop as John worked.

"I don't think we ever officially met," John said as he filled the pot with water.

"I don't see why we should. I know who you are and you obviously know who I am and what I do," Sherlock said. "That's enough to be going on."

John chuckled and set the pot down, turning to face Sherlock and holding his hand out. "I'm Dr John Watson. You can call me John, or Doc if you like."

"Doc?" Sherlock sputtered, looking between John's hand and his face with disdain.

"If you like," John said warmly, still holding his hand out.

"Do you think that moniker works for you, Dr Watson?" Sherlock spit. "Does it foster a sense of trust between you and you're coworkers? Or is it just that you'd still like to be working with the living and your bedside manner has no use now that your patients are on slabs rather than in beds?"

John slowly drew his hand away, slowly enough that Sherlock said the slight tremor, and went back to readying the coffee maker. Sherlock watched him work, not sure why he was being so incredibly rude.

"I suppose you'd like to see the body from yesterday," John said, walking back into the morgue.

"Obviously," Sherlock said flatly.

John went to the far end of the room and opened the door to one of the cold chambers and pulled out a slab with nothing on it. He stood back with his hands on his hips and looked at it carefully. Sherlock was confused. Why on earth was the doctor just staring at the empty slab.

"Seems he got up and walked away," John said, face serious. "Suppose it was my incredible bedside manner that did it."

Sherlock's jaw dropped and he turned to John in confusion, not sure what to say to the ridiculous man.

"Maybe if you come back around lunch time and bring me a sandwich and ask very, very nicely he'll be back where I put him," John said, raising one eyebrow.

"A sandwich?" Sherlock spit, quite literally, saliva escaping his angry mouth.

"Oh, the sandwich is very important," John said solemnly. "It'll take all my energy to convince him to lay still for you again. Dead bodies are like that...or didn't you know?"

"This is blackmail!" Sherlock hissed.

"Don't get me one out of the machine upstairs. Those are awful," John said, crossing his arms and squaring off with Sherlock.

"I'm not going to buy you a bloody sandwich! Lestrade will hear about this!" Sherlock threatened.

"Oh, bring him a sandwich too, will you? He likes rye I think," John said.

Sherlock looked at the other doors on the wall and almost moved to yank one open before John spoke again.

"I was a Captain, you know. Trained in close quarters combat," he said, voice low and, to Sherlock's dismay, rather sultry in the way it rumbled from him.

"Not enough to threaten black mail?" Sherlock asked, eyes on John. "Now you'll move to assault?"

"The place across the street makes a very good chorizo roll," John said, lips curling into a dangerous smile.

Sherlock stormed from the room, already phoning Greg on his mobile, and John locked it behind him and went for his first cup of coffee of the day.


	3. Stubborn

"What do you mean there is nothing you can do?" Sherlock demanded, pacing the hall outside the morgue and shouting into his mobile.

"You brought this on yourself, Sherlock," Greg said. "You knew he was in charge of the body and you still didn't think before speaking. What did you say to him? Did you call him an idiot?"

"Of course I didn't call him an idiot!" Sherlock replied angrily.

"Because he isn't? So it's just me, yeah?" Greg asked.

Sherlock saw where the conversation was going sighed loudly.

"Maybe you should just buy him a sandwich," Greg said. "You need a little humbling anyhow."

"Maybe I shouldn't ever help you again," Sherlock countered.

"Now who's threatening?" Greg asked, honestly enjoying the whole situation. "Spend a few pounds and ingratiate yourself with the man. Maybe he'll even let you bring home a body part."

Sherlock rang off and stomped out of the building, hailing a cab and heading home. 

_____

Sherlock found himself surrounded by pictures of John an hour later, some from CCTV and some from the man's blog. What a doctor was doing with a blog Sherlock couldn't understand. He'd found a particularly horrid mustache in a magazine and cut it off the celebrity it belonged to and pasted it onto the picture from John's blog, the one with the doctor looking right at the camera.

"You look like an old man," Sherlock said to the picture of John. "And I'm not buying you a damn sandwich."

_____

Mrs H found him on the sofa a half hour later, pictures of John spread across every surface, most of them with the heads cut off and one with a pair of horns drawn on. She chuckled to herself, seeing what was actually going on, and collected them carefully before stacking them on Sherlock's desk, the one of John with what she thought was a very handsome mustache right on top. On second thought she turned them over, hoping the frenzy would end of Sherlock didn't look at him so much.

Finally she went and took the pair of scissors in Sherlock's hand and set them on the table. He groaned and woke, stretching and frowning seriously.

"What time is it?" He asked.

"Just about time for lunch. Would you like me to make something up?" Mrs Hudson asked.

Sherlock growled, bending in on himself as if in agony, and gripped his curls with painful force. She took a step back and he sprung up and walked out the door, going to hail a cab and do something stupid for someone horrid.

_____

He entered the sandwich shop and went to the counter. A smiling woman came to greet him. Her smile dropped when she saw the look on his face.

"One chorizo roll," he spit. "To go."

"Oh, you must be Sherlock," she said, the smile coming back. "Dr Watson called to tell us to expect you. It'll be no charge today. I'll get it just now. Are you sure you don't want anything? He said we could put it on his tab."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open and he shook his head before collecting himself and figuring she would get the point that he didn't want anything if he simply went to sit in one of the chairs outside. She watched him go. Dr Watson had warned her that Sherlock would be temperamental and she heard in his voice that he was rather fond of the man. 

_____

"Your sandwich," Sherlock ground out, pressing the bag into John's chest.

"Ah, right on time," John replied with a small smile. "I just got him to lay down. Chamber three."

Sherlock snorted angrily and went to get himself a pair of gloves.

John sat near the back of the room watching Sherlock work. He was impressed by how intense Sherlock's stare was as he examined every inch of the body. He was actually surprised that Sherlock had come back, thinking the man would be too stubborn to eat his pride even for just that small amount of time. It looked like he was actually interested in the case enough to do so.

He'd tried being angry with the genius, he was incredibly rude after all, but it didn't work. When he pointed out the fact that John wasn't always a pathologist, and the way he'd pointed it out, John should have been angry. Instead he was amazed. He had to stop himself from calling the man a genius right then and there. It was his first instinct even as he felt his stomach fall at the comment.

Now he was watching the man with such a fondness that he almost forgot all about his food. When he finally picked up the sandwich it had cooled slightly but was still good. They made the best food he'd had in a long time and had been his first stop after he'd got out of the hospital after being discharged. The food was nostalgic.

Just as he'd finished his chips Greg walked through the door. He looked upset. It couldn't be good.

"There's another body," he said, answering John's unsaid question.

John was on his feet immediately, ready to get to work as adrenalin was dumped into his system. His brain still didn't seem up to differentiating between a dead body and a call to action and managed to throw him into the same mindset that kept him alive in the army each time he went out into the field.

Sherlock was stripping his gloves off and quickly pushing the body back into its chamber when Greg realised he was there. He took a step closer to John and spoke conspiratorially.

"Should I tell him not to come?" He asked.

"Naw, he's fine," John said with a soft smile.

Greg's eyebrows furrowed and he cocked his head to the side. "What kind of spell has he cast on you?"

"He's harmless," John said quietly.

Greg looked at him suspiciously and Sherlock joined them at the door.

"Are we going to go or are we going to stand here all day looking clueless?" He asked.

Greg looked at him and shook his head.

"Want to share a cab?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him like he didn't understand what he was and spoke slowly. "I can afford my own cab."

"I didn't say you couldn't," John replied, following him out to the kerb, "but we're going to the same place. It'd be kind of stupid to take two cabs."

Sherlock glowered at him and strode out into the street to hail a cab for himself, leaving John to chuckle at the absurdity of it from the kerb. Stubborn, that was right.

It wasn't until he got into the cab that Sherlock realised he didn't know where he was going. He convinced the cabbie to hold off until John got into a cab and then to follow it.


	4. We

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime scene and beyond.

Everyone that was already at the crime scene was nervous when John and Sherlock stepped out of their respective cabs. They'd seen the way Sherlock had stormed off the time before and knew that when Sherlock was unhappy everyone suffered. He pouted like no other.

Sherlock strode past John and into the building, people parting like the Red Sea for Moses, and went to the body without even grabbing a pair of gloves. John sauntered in after him and grabbed two pair of gloves and two full cover suits. 

"Here," he said, holding one of each out to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the gloves but turned his nose up at the suit. John sighed and squared his shoulders.

"My crime scene, my rules," he said shaking the plastic-backed paper suit.

"I won't transfer anything," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Suit," John said, voice stern. "Now."

Sherlock swallowed, not at all liking the way his body responded, and raised his head.

"Besides," John added, face unreadable even to a genius, "the blue'll compliment your eyes."

"My eyes aren't blue," Sherlock replied, unsteady.

"I said compliment, not match," John replied. "Compliment your eyes and that rosy blush."

Sherlock's eyes shot wide and he looked around to make sure they were alone and no one else could hear. John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock pulled the suit from his hand.

"You can leave the coat and suit jacket with Greg," John said.

"You aren't nearly as charming as you think you are," Sherlock said as he stood to leave the room. "And the blue doesn't compliment YOUR eyes."

"Charming wouldn't work on you, anyhow," John said over his shoulder. 

Sherlock scowled and left. 

'Stern seems to be working just fine, though,' John thought in Sherlock's absence.

_____

"Can I put my things in your sedan?" Sherlock asked, making his way to the front and feeling off kilter.

Greg gave him a strange look and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Sorry," Greg said, "just having you ask instead of tell me something is a bit confusing. And are you actually going to suit up?"

"Don't gloat," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. "It's your own fault and you know it."

"What did I do?" Greg asked.

"You hired a dictator as a pathologist," Sherlock spit, pushing his coat into Greg's hands and removing his jacket. "The man's insufferable."

"Looks like you have something in common," Sally said, walking up next to Greg.

"He's not anywhere near my intelligence," Sherlock replied angrily, not following.

"Alight, genius," John said from behind him. "Show us what you've got."

"Is that a challenge?" Sherlock shot back, zipping up the suit.

"No, I'd just like to see you work," John said honestly.

Sherlock scrunched up his nose and walked with John back into the room with the body.

"What the hell was that?" Sally asked, perplexed that John didn't mind being insulted by Sherlock. Everyone minded.

Greg chuckled and slipped Sherlock's things into the back seat of his panda. "That, Sally, was Sherlock Holmes meeting his match."

She made a disgusted face and stomped away.

_____

"Same poison, obviously," Sherlock said, opening the woman's mouth.

"Obviously," John parroted. "So what's different?"

Sherlock looked at him for a second and then went back to examining the body. His eyes flitted over the dead woman and his left hand twitched at his temple. It was the same behavior John had seen in the morgue, Sherlock sifting through what he suspected was mental detritus, and it was captivating. John wondered if Sherlock knew he was doing it.

"She's a naturalist. If we look into her past we'll find that she was the one that brought the poison back. She'd have to stow it in something. We need to find out who her competitors were at work, perhaps one of them was jealous. We need to find out the link between the her and the other victim. They were in the same place within the last few days, or, alternately, he was there first and she went there after he was found dead. Maybe they buried the poison," Sherlock spit quickly. "And you should stop staring at my back and come examine the body yourself."

"Sorry," John murmured, going to kneel across from Sherlock. 

The same red clay dirt was under the woman's nails that had been present on the bottom of the man's boots. Sherlock was right, and she'd been digging.

"Brilliant," he said, looking up and beaming at Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed hard and felt the blush coming back, he looked down quickly and spoke in a soft voice. "If you'll allow me to sample the dirt I can tell you exactly where it came from."

"Pollen or mineral composition?" John asked.

Sherlock's head lifted and he looked at John in a way he hadn't before. His eyes flitted back and forth between John's and he licked his lips. John felt heat swirling in his abdomen and cleared his throat, the interaction becoming a bit too intimate.

"Both," Sherlock said finally. 

"Good...good," John said. "You can, um, you can use my lab if you like. We can split the job, finish quicker."

"Fine," Sherlock said, "but-"

"Separate cabs, I know," John interrupted.

"No," Sherlock replied, "we can share a cab. You pay, though. I was going to say that I get pollen. I wrote a paper on it a year back."

"I'd like to read it," John said.

Sherlock frowned and stood. "We should really get going."

_____

Two hours later John and Sherlock stood side by side, matching microscopes in front of them, looking through the dirt. There were machines spinning in the corner, parsing the chemical composition and putting out a low hum. It was so calm that John stood from shock, body ready to fight, when Sherlock burst into motion.

"Where are you going?" John asked as the genius put on his gloves and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"Have to go back to the first crime scene. He was figuring out where the poison was, and someone wanted badly to keep him from finding out it had been stolen. He was killed to stop his looking, as was the woman. She took up the search after he did but he was the first to go looking for it. If I can find out where he'd been searching I might be able to anger the killer," Sherlock said, walking to the door.

John sighed and stood, following him to the kerb. "And you think it's a good idea to anger the killer?"

"It's the only way to get them to show themselves," Sherlock said, slipping into the back seat of a cab that had magically appeared.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," John replied, pushing in next to him and slamming the door with a huff.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

"Coming with you, you git," John said, crossing his arms and looking out the window. "So you don't get yourself killed."

"I can take care of myself," Sherlock protested. "Get out."

"No bleeding way," John replied, pulling his mobile from his pocket.

Sherlock snatched it away and stuffed it into his greatcoat and told the driver the address.

"Give it back," John growled, reaching forward and pulling Sherlock's coat open.

Sherlock slapped him away and John caught him on the chin with a punch. Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he pushed John back by his forehead.

"You hit me!" He hissed, other hand going to rub his chin.

"I didn't hit you hard," John said, reaching again for where his phone was. "And you hit me first."

"I slapped you," Sherlock replied, frown contorting his face as he continued to hold John at arm's length.

"Oi," the driver shouted. "No lover's spats in my cab!"

That shocked John enough that he stopped struggling and crossed his arms again. Sherlock mirrored him and looked out the window.

"We aren't together," John said.

The driver rolled his eyes at him and focused back on the road. "Sure," he said, "and I'm the Queen."


	5. Funniest Thing On Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These idiots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this chapter. Can't wait for them to fuck ;D

The driver arrived outside the first crime scene just as the sky was getting dark and Sherlock took off out the door without another word. John cursed and paid the cabbie, glad Sherlock had absconded with his mobile rather than his wallet, then jogged to where Sherlock had disappeared around the back of the building.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, coming up behind the man and pushing his shoulder.

"Quiet," Sherlock hissed, his concentration going back to breaking in through the back door.

"You've got to be bloody kidding," John said under his breath, looking around the corner and wondering if this little adventure would end in the two of them sharing a cell by the end of the night.

Sherlock fiddled with the two small bits of metal he had jammed in the keyhole and John continued to grumble to himself. It took less that five minutes to get into the house but it felt much longer to John. He had the sensation of a neon sign in the shape of an arrow floating above his head.

"Come on, then," Sherlock whispered, opening the door and leaving John to decide whether he'd like to leave it all at witnessing a crime or take the leap into official house breaking territory, Sherlock knew what he'd decide.

John stomped into the back room seconds later and nearly screamed when Sherlock wrapped a hand around his arm. Luckily for Sherlock John had spent many years in situations where screaming was the right response and had learned to push that part of himself down.

There in front of them, lit in a sort of diffused halo, was another man. He wasn't the only one house breaking that night, but this was a bit different than collecting evidence. Only a bit.

The man rummaged through a drawer, head lamp focused where he looked, and quietly tossed papers to the floor when he'd deemed them useless. John's blood sang with adrenalin and it took all his strength to not tackle the man to the ground. It was obvious, even to him, that this was the killer. Who else, besides them, would break into the home of a dead man and search through his belongings? 

"You won't find it," Sherlock said, his deep voice sounding off in the quiet room like a grenade.

The man spun and John found himself temporarily blinded by the head lamp as Sherlock took off after the man, and he was quite suddenly in complete darkness. He followed the sounds of feet and caught up to them just as they were taking off down the street. Neighboring dogs barked as they passed and John hopped over an upturned bin in the nick of time. 

His heart beat solidly in his chest and he had the impression that his legs were being stretched past their limit. He would, the next day, promise himself he'd take up running again, because the tightness turned to pain sure enough.

He rounded a corner and found Sherlock sparing with the head-lamped killer at the end of the alleyway. They were moving back and forth trying to grab hold of one another, the beam of light pulling their shadows to strange heights that spilled across a fence and ran up the back of a house. John was distracted for a moment by the sight of it but looked back to the killer in just enough time to see something glint as it was pulled out of his back pocket.

John used all the strength he had left to tackle the man to the ground and wrench the knife from his fist. The head lamp went flying and the shadows spun out of control at dizzying speed.

"Call the Met!" John shouted, knee pressing into the killer's back and hands clutching at his wrists.

Sherlock fumbled his own mobile from his pocket and tapped out a message to Greg, not exactly what John had been suggesting but good enough, before coming over and pulling John's scarf off to help tie the killer up.

_____

Five minutes later Greg and his men came around the corner to find John sitting on the man and Sherlock sulking a few steps away.

"Still don't see why you had to use MY scarf," John said, frowning.

"Do you have any idea the quality of mine?" Sherlock spat back, hands in his pockets giving away more guilt than his words.

"Alright," Greg bellowed. "What in the hell is going on?"

Both John and Sherlock looked up and the killer groaned and tried to stretch.

"I told you in the text," Sherlock said, squaring his shoulders. "This is the killer."

"And how exactly do you know that?" Greg asked, coming forward and pointing his torch at the man.

"He was house breaking down the road," John explained. "At the first crime scene."

"And how the hell do you know that?" Greg asked again, eyes showing an anger John hadn't seen before.

"We were house breaking at the same time," Sherlock interjected.

Greg's face looked less than shocked and John wondered just how many times Sherlock had been caught doing exactly what they'd done that night. Greg pointed Sally to the restrained man and she and John unwound the scarf so they could attach handcuffs.

"Meet us back at the Met," Greg said to a suddenly nervous Sherlock.

"I can give you a statement tomorrow," Sherlock tried.

"You'll be at the Met in twenty, whether you're there in handcuffs is your choice," Greg said.

Sherlock looked over to where John was just standing and swallowed.

"We'll get a cab together," John said, walking up next to Sherlock and looking him in the eye, "won't we?"

"Yes," Sherlock said weakly.

_____

The ride back to the Met was quiet and Sherlock fidgeted in his seat. He didn't like it when Lestrade was angry with him. He'd push the man's buttons, yes, but he was always looking forward to his praise. He felt foolish for bringing John along. If John hadn't been there Sherlock wouldn't have been so...embarrassed. He'd been embarrassed. How strange was that?

He followed John out and they made their way to Greg's office, sitting next to each other at his desk and awaiting their fate.

"That was stupid," John said. "You could've been stabbed."

"But I wasn't," Sherlock countered. "And you went along with it. I didn't twist your arm. You came because you're bored with your life."

"What?" John asked, utterly surprised that Sherlock had picked up on it.

"You're bored and I'm exciting," Sherlock spat childishly. "Admit it."

John sat back in his seat and crossed his arms.

"I'm exciting and you like being around me," Sherlock stressed.

"You're reckless," John said. "And I'm..."

"Very good at tackling knife wielding murderers," Sherlock added.

John snorted and relaxed a bit. "Told you I was trained in close quarters combat."

"He was twice your size," Sherlock said.

"Was not!" John shouted, smile playing on his lips. "You make me out to be an Oompa Loompa!"

"A what?" Sherlock asked.

"You've never seen...never mind. Let's rustle up some coffee," John replied, standing and opening the door for Sherlock. "I'm exhausted."

"You're out of shape," Sherlock said, following John into the hall.

John chuckled. "Shut up," he said, shaking his head.

The front desk attendant watched them walk towards the break room together and nearly choked on his tea. Sherlock Holmes, smiling like a giddy schoolboy, and Dr Watson, looking at him like he thought he was the funniest thing on Earth.


	6. Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg makes it back to the office and John gets Sherlock to ask (not really) nicely for what he wants.

By the time Greg got back to his office, Sally right behind, John and Sherlock were bored out of their minds and were both on their second cup of coffee. Greg took a deep breath outside the door to collect himself. He was glad that the two men seemed to be getting along; Sherlock was undeniably an asset and John wasn't going anywhere. On the other hand he really didn't need Sherlock to have a partner in crime. It was hard enough to keep the man on the straight and narrow without a bloody sidekick.

He opened the door to find Sherlock tossing pencils and seeing if they would stick, sharp end, in the ceiling. Two were high above his head, hanging precariously, as he tossed a third. When it fell down and hit him in the forehead John burst out laughing and leaned back in his chair with a happy sigh and a grin. It wasn't what Greg wanted to find.

"I'm going to go get a coffee. When I come back this had better be cleaned up," Greg said sternly.

Sherlock frowned and went about arranging the chair so he could reach the pencils.

_____

That night when Sherlock got home he started going through some cold cases he'd pilfered from Greg's office. He'd dismissed half of them when his mobile chimed.

GOOD TO SEE YOU'RE GETTING ALONG WITH THE NEW PATHOLOGIST.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and typed back.

WHAT DO YOU WANT? SH

The reply was instantaneous.

TO LET YOU KNOW THAT I CAN GET YOU OUT OF TROUBLE BUT NOT HIM. BE CAREFUL WHAT HE BECOMES COMPLICIT IN. AND MUMMY WANTS US TO COME TO DINNER NEXT WEEKEND. I KNOW YOU AREN'T BUSY.

Sherlock tossed the mobile onto the sofa and went back to the most interesting (see: less dull) cold case.

_____

John and Greg had another evening at the pub planned and John was starting to wonder if Greg would call it off after his little, let's say, indiscretion. He'd been solemnly working in his office down next to the morgue most of the next day after tucking his head in to say hello when he got there and he felt rather like he was being ignored. When the door opened around four he thought it must be Greg but what he found when he glanced up from his paperwork was a sheepish Sherlock.

"Oh," he said, surprised and confused.

"I need to use your computer," Sherlock said, obviously as flustered as John was confused.

"That sounded almost like a request," John said back, licking his lips and actively waiting for a little tête-à-tête.

"I thought we were beyond that," Sherlock stated, huffing a little.

"Beyond you treating me with a modicum of respect?" John asked.

"Beyond formalities," Sherlock replied, rolling is eyes and fidgeting.

"Ask the question, Sherlock," John said, leaning back over his desk and pretending to focus on the paperwork.

"Will you stop wasting my time and let me use your computer?" Sherlock spat.

John was barely able to contain his smile and had Sherlock been looking at him he might have noticed. Luckily for both of them, as Sherlock would probably have took it as teasing, Sherlock was so out of sorts for having to ask for what he wanted that he was looking at the floor.

"Close enough," John said.

Sherlock bustled past him into the small room and started tapping away at the computer immediately after it was turned on.

"You'll need the password," John said over his shoulder.

"No," Sherlock said absently.

"No, what?" John asked, at this point simply drawing lopsided circles on a scrap of paper.

"No I don't need the password," Sherlock replied.

John snorted and looked over his shoulder to find that Sherlock was already in the system and looking through old case files.

"How...I just set a new one this month," John said.

"Northumberland?" Sherlock said dismissively. "Not exactly Tower of London."

"You looked me up," John said.

"Quite a blog you have there, Doctor Watson," Sherlock replied flatly.

"It wasn't my idea," John said defensively.

"No, it was your therapist's," Sherlock said.

John went completely silent. The room grew increasingly uncomfortable and Sherlock's keystrokes slowed. When they finally came to a stop he turned and looked at John's back. The man had stopped even trying to look busy and Sherlock felt his stomach tighten. He'd done it again, only this time he hadn't meant to. 

It wasn't that being intrusive was something Sherlock did on purpose but rather that he had certain people he tried not to do it so much with. That was hard when every time he walked into a room he was overwhelmed with information. 

For several months in uni he tried to only mention deductions that had to do with food, falsely believing that it was one area people cared so little about to not be put off by him noting. He found out how wrong he was when he managed to tell a room full of students of his lab partner's early morning binge session only to see the man's face pale. By then it was too late. He never came back to the class and Sherlock was reminded everyday by his new lab partner, a slight woman with a strong right hook who had little to hide even if Sherlock felt like disclosing it.

Now, he wouldn't deny that he used his particular super power to his advantage at times, cruelly even, but it didn't mean he always liked what came out.

"There's nothing wrong with having a therapist," he said to John's back, watching it move as John's breath hitched.

"How did you know?" John asked.

"The slight tremor in your left hand has to do with your injury. An injury like that from combat and you'd have had to see a therapist," Sherlock explained.

"It wasn't...something else?" John asked, uncertainty colouring his voice.

His greatest fear was that someone would be able to see exactly how irrevocably broken he was inside, that something he did or said would give it away. His leg was even starting to ache and he knew if he let himself rub it the limp would return.

"Not sure what you mean," Sherlock said.

It was honest and it gave John the piece of mind to go back to his work, ignoring the ache in his leg and shuffling through his papers and organizing them as best he could. By the time he looked up to ask what Sherlock was doing the man had already left and it was half past leaving time. He picked up his mobile from the desk and rang Greg.

"Care for a pint?" He asked hopefully.

"You read my mind," Greg said with a long sigh.

"Meet you there," John said, reassured that he was no longer in friendship limbo.

He packed his things up grabbed his coat, reaching for his gloves and stilling. On top of them there was a small scrap of paper with a mobile number on it. He picked it up and turned it over. He knew it must've been Sherlock's number, as no one else had been in his office, but the who was much less interesting to him than the why.

He stuck it in his pocket and headed out the door.

_____

Sherlock was sat at his desk writing theories on the cold case and cursing himself. He'd been too subtle. Not only that but he was still confused by his own actions. He'd left John his number. He'd left John his number the way you leave someone your number when you want to go on a date with them. After an hour of thinking the situation over he was horrified to find that the simplest explanation was that he wanted to go on a date with John.

Which was...it couldn't...oh, oh, dear lord...he wanted to go on a date with John.


	7. Some Sort Of Hint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're coming to the climax *snicker* of our story. I love you guys so damn much and I really hope you get a kick out of this one. I know I'm being shitty at replying to comments but I SEE YOU AND YOU KEEP ME GOING!

John was already on his second pint when Greg walked in the door, fingers running over he small bit of paper with Sherlock's number on it with such undivided attention as to smear the ink a bit. The two was giving in to his index finger and turning the white paper it was on bluish.

"Don't tell me you already got the bartender's number," Greg said with a sigh, taking the seat across from John and narrowing his eyes.

"No...it's," John started. "Girl I met on the tube."

Greg looked him over but decided not to press the lie. Whatever was going on would probably come out soon enough.

"How's the wife?" John asked, trying to get as far away from he topic of the number as possible.

"Christ," Greg said, "you don't have to be cruel. I didn't mean to upset you."

John sighed and sat back in his seat and Greg took a long sip of his pint, noting John's nervousness and raising his hand to signal the waitress.

"I think we need some shots," he said seriously.

"I couldn't agree more," John replied, sticking the paper back in his pocket and downing his pint ferociously.

Greg nodded solemnly and ordered them both vodka. It had been a hell of a week, after all.

"I suppose I really just need to get a leg over," John said grimly as the shots were brought to the table.

Greg held his glass aloft and nodded. "Amen to that."

_____

John stumbled up the stairs to his flat four hours later, not sure where the time had gone and less than eager to deal with the fact that he was having trouble walking. He walked into the kitchen and drank water right from the tap before grappling with the bottle of paracetamol and taking two with a last gulp of water. 

He grabbed an old t-shirt from his dresser and clumsily removed his button down before moving across the room. His bed felt heavenly and he slumped into it with a long suffering sigh. It took a while to get up the energy to unbutton and push down his denims, and slip off his shoes, socks getting stuck at the bottom of the duvet with one of them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, planning on setting his alarm. The small piece of paper came out with it.

He shouldn't have. He really shouldn't have. The only problem was that he was already typing in Sherlock's number and pulling up the messaging app. He typed out a quick message and sent it.

THIS IS JHON

He stared at the typo until a response came a few seconds later.

ARE YOU DRUNK? SH

He swallowed and went on ahead.

MAYBE  
WHY DID YOU GVIE ME YOUR NUMBER?

Again it wasn't long before he got a reply.

I DON'T KNOW. SH

BULLSHOT, He typed back. YOU KNOW EVERYTHING ALWAYS AND WONT SHUT UP ABOUT IT

WHY ARE YOU TEXTING ME? SH

John sighed and closed his eyes for a second, embarrassed by the truth.

CUASE I COULDNT STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU TONIGHT AND YOU GAVR ME YOUR NUMBER GREG AND I WENT OUT DRINKING AND I WANTED A SHAG BUT I DIDNT GET ONE

The next reply took a while to come and John had honestly almost fallen asleep by then, hand down his pants scratching his pubic hair absently.

YOU SHOULD GO TO BED, JOHN. I'LL TALK TO YOU TOMORROW. SH

YEAH OKAY, he typed. TALK TO YOU THEN

_____

The next morning John was a colossal coward. He should have texted Sherlock to apologize but instead he went in to work with an extra coffee for Greg and figured he could try to explain himself later. He was sitting in Greg's office when Sherlock burst through the door at half nine.

"It was the neighbor," he shouted. "I've got proof!"

"Is this to do with one of the cold cases you stole from my..." Greg asked, question dying on his lips as Sherlock lifted several papers and shuffled through them.

They were obviously Sherlock's notes, which was unsurprising on their own, but on the other side they were photos of John. Grainy CCTV photos and ones blown up from John's blog were intermingled and drawn upon. Greg's eyes grew wide and he plucked one from Sherlock's hands.

"What?" Sherlock spat in agitation.

Greg slowly turned the paper around and held it up, the black and white face of John was adorned with sloppy horns drawn in blue. Sherlock took a step back and several of the other sheets dropped to the floor. He looked on in horror as John grasped the one with the pasted on mustache and looked it over with a smile.

"Is this some sort of hint?" John asked, holding the picture next to his face to illustrate.

"Those aren't-I wasn't-you weren't meant to see those," Sherlock sputtered as he tore the paper from John's hand and stuffed all of them back into the file he'd come in with.

John and Greg watched him huff and turn red and leave the room, bursting into laughter as the door was slammed shut. It occurred to John several seconds later that he'd better go after Sherlock so he pulled himself together and did just that, finally catching up to the genius outside and pulling him into an alley.

"Let me go," Sherlock growled.

"Look, I'm sorry-" John tried. 

"No you aren't! You think I'm pathetic!"

"I don't think you're pathetic," John said, "it was just a shock to see my face with a mustache."

He tried not to smile but when he did Sherlock smiled along with him and rested his head in his hands.

"I was angry with you," Sherlock explained, leaning against the old brick building.

"So you thought I should have a mustache as punishment?" John asked, leaning next to him and bumping Sherlock's shoulder with his own.

"It was a horrid mustache," Sherlock said. "Besides, I prefer you clean shaven. You're quite handsome that way."

John surged forward and sealed their lips together hands going into Sherlock's hair and pulling a moan from the taller man. Sherlock gripped John's hips and pulled him closer and John turned them to press Sherlock into the wall. When they finally broke apart they were both breathless and Sherlock looked stunned.

"You should," he said, touching his lips. "You should do that again."

John smiled crookedly and acquiesced.


	8. Alliance

"This was unexpected," Sherlock said a bit later, head pressed back to the wall and eyes closed.

John ran a hand down his arm and grinned. Unexpected, yes, but nothing near unwanted. John figured it had been boiling up inside him for a while and had simply come to a head the night before.

"Handsome?" John asked cheekily.

"Quite," Sherlock replied.

"Come back inside and solve us a case," John said, taking a step back and smiling up at Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned and John held his arm out, gesturing to the building's front door. They both knew it was part peace offering, part protection. Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded, following John back into the building and keeping his eyes on the floor. John, on the other hand, held his head high, almost daring anyone to say something.

When they got to Greg's office Sally was inside and giggling. Greg cleared his throat and she shut right the hell up and stared at the way John stood at Sherlock's side.

"The cold case," Sherlock said, pushing his notes forward.

Greg gave Sally a look and she left the room without a word

_____

When Sherlock had managed to explain everything Greg was shaking his head in disbelief and John was sitting next to him beaming.

"What caused the skin to slough?" John asked, eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"No idea," Sherlock replied, grin spreading across his face. "Of course, we could test for contaminants if we were allowed to exhume the body."

"Oh, Greg-" John started.

"No," Greg replied quickly. "If we can prove the murder was committed by the doctor without exhuming then there's no reason to."

"Scientific curiosity doesn't count?" Sherlock asked.

"It would add to our bank of knowledge," John added. "And possibly help us solve a case faster in the future."

"The family won't like this," Greg said. "It's bad enough that it's been three years without answers."

"But now you have answers," John said pointedly. "You're their knight in shining armour."

"Sometimes knights get things in return," Sherlock added. "Don't they?"

Greg let his head hit the table as the reality of the monster that was Sherlock and John working together was revealed. He knew he'd give in. It was only a matter of time. 

_____

Four hours and several forms later Greg stood by as John and Sherlock took samples from the body. It was still in fairly good shape, what with the hardwood coffin and embalming fluid, but the smell wasn't pleasant.

The woman wore a long sleeved dress and gloves to cover where the skin had sloughed from her arms almost immediately after death. Gloves covering where she'd been de-gloved. John found that bit funny but kept it to himself.

"Are you about done?" Greg asked with a withering sigh.

"Can't rush science," Sherlock said.

"Yes," John added. "Almost."

"Could take a while longer," Sherlock insisted.

"Stop teasing the man," John said. "He's about to lose his lunch."

"Speaking of lunch," Sherlock said.

Greg stomped off and Sherlock grinned. 

"Stop grinning," John replied, eyes alight with mischief.

He tried to ignore how impossibly appealing Sherlock was when he was genuinely smiling. It was more difficult than he was able to admit, the warmth in his chest waring with the tableau in front of him. 'Romance among the dead,' he thought.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised.

"You can't grin in a graveyard," John replied.

"Oh, I think you could manage if you actually tried," Sherlock teased.

"You're horrible," John said.

"I'm done," Sherlock corrected. "Let's go eat."

_____

It wasn't the first time that John had arrived at his favorite cafe after working with a dead body but it was the first time after working with one in the field. He knew they smelled, the sort of smell that permeated cloth and held onto your shoes no matter how you cleaned them, so they sat on the sidewalk and he waved the waitress to them. She scrunched her nose up but took their order and brought them both tea to combat the drizzle that had started to come down mere steps away from their seats. 

They sipped it and smiled at each other sheepishly, not sure where to go from there. Not sure what to talk about.

"You should come over tonight," Sherlock said, looking down into his tea. "We can order in Chinese."

"And watch crap telly?" John asked, feeling his stomach twist and turn at the thought.

"If you insist," Sherlock said.

"You wouldn't mind watching crap telly with me?" John asked, the reality that he wanted more than just kissing in alleyways hitting him like a freight train as he waited for a response.

"I think I'll suffer through," Sherlock replied.

The waitress brought out their food and John let his leg rest against Sherlock's under the table.

_____

That night Sherlock and John took a cab home together. They were both buzzing in their seats with the combined power of recently required affection and more recently exhumed body. It was a strange mix to say the least.

John tipped the cabbie extra for the smell and she frowned at him as he left. Sherlock was opening the door when John made it to the front stoop. Before either of them could walk in an older woman popped her head out.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade called ahead," she explained, pressing a stack of clothes into John's arms. "Said you two were at a graveyard. Don't want your clothes ruining the sofa. Put these on, Doctor Watson."

"John," he said, taking them and staring at her.

"Now go shower and I'll put your dirty clothes in the wash after I've made tea," she said. "Just this once, though. I'm not a laundry."

John covered his grin with his hand and followed Sherlock up the stairs. 

"She was right about the shower, I'm afraid," Sherlock said, suddenly nervous at the thought of John wet and naked. "You can have the first."

John licked his lips and nodded, waiting until Sherlock realised he had no idea where he was and pointed the way. John slipped out of his clothes and waited for the old pipes to decide he was worthy of hot water. 

Sherlock went into his bedroom while John showered and got himself a pair of pyjama pants and an old t-shirt, figuring comfort would be best in the end. He had John in his house, after all, and that could lead to all sorts of tactile elements.


	9. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possibly the second to last chapter. Apply sunscreen before reading or you might get burned...

While John was showering Mrs Hudson brought up a tray filled with snack sized sandwiches, biscuits, fruit and a teapot. She put it in the sitting room and peeked in on Sherlock where he was standing at the loo door in his bedroom.

"Put some goodies out," she said.

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, still concentrated on the frosted window in the door.

"It's enough for tea," she added.

He nodded again and she moved to join him in the bedroom, both of them getting a bit excited when John stepped from the shower and the amorphous blob that was him moved around near the sink.

"He's rather handsome," she said. "Better than in the photos you had printed out. Do you think he'll grow the mustache?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Sherlock hissed.

She jumped at that and fluttered away and he tried to even out his breathing. John. John was naked mere steps from him and he'd been wanting to ask him on a date and now they'd kissed and surely that meant SOMETHING-

"You in there?" John asked, face soft and hair still damp, as he leaned down to roll up the pant legs of the pyjama trousers he was wearing.

"You've not got a shirt on," Sherlock blurted.

"Oh, yeah, well, I thought you might want to get in there so I tried to be done quick," John said, pointing to where he'd set the shirt outside the loo door. 

Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat. "I'll just...Mrs H left some food and tea for us in the sitting room."

"She's a bit keen, yeah?" John teased.

"She wants to know if you'll grow the mustache," Sherlock replied with a small smile, happy to be talking to John again.

John chuckled and shook his head as Sherlock moved around him and into the loo. Sherlock closed the door and rested back against it, listening to John's laughing dying down and how he hummed to himself for a moment.

"Don't stay in there too long," John said. "It's boring out here and I have on good account that you're exciting."

Sherlock felt himself flush and got into the shower so quickly he knocked over the shampoo. He heard John snicker and felt the flush expand.

In the sitting room John found the tea and poured himself a cup then sat on the sofa and nibbled at a sandwich. The flat was very Sherlock, covered in odds and ends with scientific equipment tucked in every corner. He searched around for the remote control and managed to find a crime scene investigation show on the telly. 

When Sherlock came out a few minutes later he found John in just about the most comfortable state a man could be in. He was almost intimidated by how easily John seemed to mesh with his surroundings, as if it wasn't his own flat after all. He snapped out of it when he saw what was on the telly.

"How can you possibly watch this drivel?" He asked getting himself a cuppa and taking the seat next to John.

John broke his biscuit in half and passed it over, eyes not leaving the screen. "It's entertainment, yeah, can't expect it to be realistic."

"They aren't even trying to follow procedure," Sherlock said, dunking the biscuit and crossing his legs on the sofa.

"You're one it talk," John replied, looking over and smiling a bit. "Thought you were going to knock my head off when I suggested you put on a full cover suit."

"You didn't suggest," Sherlock said quickly, setting down his tea, "you ordered. Like you were my commanding officer!"

The second it was out of his mouth Sherlock knew he shouldn't have said it. His body was already quite interested in the fact that he could smell his shampoo in John's hair and the thought of their first meeting caused him to need to hold the flag covered pillow in his lap.

"Yeah, I did," John said, setting his own tea down and crossing his arms, "an' you liked it."

"Bollocks!" Sherlock sputtered.

"Yeah, they liked it too," John replied with a quirked eyebrow.

Sherlock shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

"What's the matter, genius?" John teased. "Cat got your tongue?"

Sherlock squeaked.

"Ah, come 'ere," John said turning and opening his arms.

Sherlock frowned at him and John cocked his head to the side. 

"Come 'ere," John said again, "gorgeous."

"Is that an order?" Sherlock asked unsteadily.

"Would you like it to be?" John asked, hands falling to his thighs.

"You're very smart," Sherlock said apropos of nothing, "and handsome. You know that, don't you?"

"Well-" John tried, now the one that was a bit off kilter.

"You've nearly slept with half the Met," Sherlock added.

"No I haven't!" John spat.

"Half of the single ones," Sherlock said. "And one married."

"They're separated," John said.

Sherlock went on, "You could have anyone you want."

"That's not completely-" John replied.

"Which begs the question," Sherlock interrupted. "Why me?"

John's mouth hanged open and he sat there looking at Sherlock for a moment before realising he was actually meant to answer. "Sherlock."

"You must have more than that," Sherlock said, playing with the hem of his shirt.

"You're impossible," John said.

"Fine, if you don't want to answer, then-" Sherlock shot back.

John leaned in and pulled him into a kiss by the collar. When they broke he had a smile on his face.

"That WAS my answer, you berk. You're impossible and I find that incredibly interesting. You're brilliant to the point of near insanity and you're pushy and you hate not being the smartest person in the room. You're handsome and childish and you make me think. Christ, do you know how long it's been since someone's made me THINK?" John demanded.

Sherlock clambered into his lap and sealed their lips back together with a whimper. He sucked on John's bottom lip and rolled his hips and John growled and gripped him, pulling away to speak.

"You see now?" John asked. "You see why I can't stop thinking about you?"

"It's not a dare," Sherlock said, looking feverishly between John's eyes.

"God, no," John said. "I want you. More than just for getting off, yeah? This is...I want..."

"Me too," Sherlock spat. "More than that."

"Right, good," John said, running his hands up Sherlock's sides.

"B-but also that," Sherlock croaked out, face flushing and eyes falling to his lap.

John chuckled and gripped his arse and thrust up against him at once and Sherlock went back in for a sloppy kiss. When they broke again Sherlock leaned forward and rested against John's chest. John ran his hands up his back and nibbled gently on his neck as he started to roll his hips. Sherlock was slack against him, the only part not boneless rutting against John's own erection.

"God, you feel good," John said as he held Sherlock close.

Sherlock moaned and pressed his hips closer and John gripped him by the arse and started to rut against him roughly. They were both right on the edge and John found himself getting rather close to finishing.

"Do you want it right here?" He asked. "Want to come right here in my lap?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied.

"What's the majic word?" John pressed, hand slipping under the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama trousers and middle finger brushing over his arsehole.

"Please!" Sherlock sobbed.

"Good lad," John murmured, pushing his finger gently. "Come on then, let's see it."

Sherlock ground his hips down and grunted and started to come, arsehole tightening as John rubbed circles into it. John closed his eyes and imagined being deep inside Sherlock and came as well, breath puffing out in loud huffs as he rutted like a dog in heat. 

"John," Sherlock whispered.

John ran his fingers up into Sherlock's curls and looked up with a soft smile. Sherlock kissed him before collapsing once again against his chest.


	10. The Christmas Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one before our epilogue. I can't tell you how much fun it's been writing this and I hope you all forgave me for not having John ever truly hate Sherlock. He's just so cute and horrible at being scary that I don't think John could manage. I couldn't. Idiot.

John ended up spending the night, sleeping in Sherlock's bed curled at his back and snoring softly into his neck. It was warm and comfortable and they'd managed to slot together perfectly. It was a situation that had Sherlock's chest clenching and a nervousness bubbling just below the surface that hadn't even been that intense when they'd first kissed. They woke in a tangle of limbs.

_____

John should have made it clear that they were together that first day. Not to other people but to Sherlock. Sherlock was an incredibly insecure person and he knew that. He was also someone who found talking about things to be as uncomfortable as the last week of wearing a cast, that constant and nagging itch making him squirm.

That was how they ended up at the Christmas party two weeks later with Sherlock standing in the corner watching John and John mingling to the best of his meager abilities.

Sherlock had arrived after John and walked into the building to find John apparently comfortable talking to the new intern, a slight woman who had her eye on him. He shouldn't have felt jealous as none of the signs of flirting could be found in John's demeanor, but the woman was oozing sex and had worn an outfit that was sure to turn heads.

Sherlock grabbed a second glass of champagne and shunned the plate of crab puffs, already feeling a bit tipsy but not really caring. If he had to be at the horrid place to begin with, which he'd argued against vehemently before giving into John, then he'd numb his discomfort.

The woman laughed at something John said and gripped his bicep and although John backed away a step Sherlock found himself moving even further into the shadows and downing his drink.

_____

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock had managed a third glass of champagne and was feeling rather weepy. John hadn't seen him and was now talking with his assistant near the food trays. Sherlock felt hollow seeing how quickly the man turned to flirting with John and wondered how often they'd done that, whispering to each other and smiling. 

It was time for some air.

He made his way onto the balcony and was stopped in his tracks when he spied Sally Donovan smoking a cigarette in the near dark, a glass of red wine in her hand and an air of dark malaise about her. She noticed him and rolled her eyes.

"Come to harass me, then?" She asked, taking a long sip of the wine.

Sherlock cleared his throat and dared to move closer. "No, just needed some air."

Sally looked him up and down suspiciously and then sighed, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and holding it out as a peace offering that every smoker knew well. Sherlock snatched it and tapped one out clumsily then stood still as Sally held up a cheap plastic lighter and pressed the flame to the tip.

"You mean you've come to commiserate." Her eyes for once softened.

"Maybe," Sherlock grumbled, wobbling a bit on his feet.

"Man trouble?" She asked, and then when he looked affronted, "Which I would understand."

"Are you, um, having, the same, I mean, is it-" Sherlock tried.

"I can't seem to pick the right ones. Maybe I should just give up." The admittance had been so out of character, she'd always had a front up, that Sherlock felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. "What's happened on your end?"

"Everyone is flirting with John," he said weakly.

Her eyebrows shot up and Sherlock felt himself blush. "Oh, do you...are you together?" 

"I think so," he said. "He's slept at my house almost every night this week."

"Well, shit, that's more commitment than I've managed in the last six months," she replied.

"But we have yet to...define the relationship."

"Look, Sherlock, I know John has been around the proverbial block but he's never slept with anyone that I know about more than three times," she said, somehow trying to calm the man she'd considered her enemy for so long. "I'd say you're exclusive."

Sherlock took a last shuddering drag of the cigarette and crushed it on the pavement before tossing it in the bin. "I think I'd better get home."

"Yeah," Sally said, "I reckon I should as well. Nothing's gonna come of tonight."

Sherlock stopped for a second at the door and then turned around. "I don't really hate you. We just, well, wrong foot and all."

Sally waved a hand dismissively, as if to say it was all in the past, and Sherlock went back into the party. He was on his way out when John saw him and jogged over.

"Hey, didn't see you come in," he said, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

Just as Sherlock turned to look at him the intern walked up with a sprig of mistletoe and held it above John's head. As she leaned in to kiss him with obviously drunken fervor John's eyes grew wide and he saw the shock and hurt on Sherlock's face. She ended up kissing the side of his face as he pulled away and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist. A small crowd had gathered and John cleared his throat and looked at them. 

'Now or never,' he thought.

"Sherlock and I are together. Sorry about the confusion."

"You're shagging?" The woman blurted.

John's jaw clenched and Sherlock felt him stiffen.

"We aren't SHAGGING," he said bitterly, "we're together. As in partners. I'm sure you'll respect our privacy enough to not act so flippant in the future."

Sherlock felt a warmth spread across his cheeks and grinned as John turned him and walked him out the door. Once they'd made it fifteen or so steps Sherlock pulled John into and alley and kissed him roughly. John growled and pressed up against him.

"We're together," Sherlock said as they broke apart to draw in cold December air.

John kissed his neck and breathed him in. "Yes."

"Because you like me," Sherlock added with a moan.

"Yes."

"More than the intern," Sherlock whimpered.

"More than the whole bloody lot," John said. "And you're gorgeous when you're drunk. Let me take you home."

"God, yes," Sherlock said.

Inside the whole room was abuzz with the fact that their handsome new pathologist was dating their difficult consultant.


	11. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the final chapter! Thank you all for hanging out with me. Enjoy the smut and fluff and join me on the next one 'Forty Bloody Years'.
> 
> Ps. Bonus enthusiastic consent.

Sherlock thought that once they got home John would ravage him, if the heavy petting in the cab was anything to go by, but he was wrong. The second they were through the door John was ushering him into the kitchen and sitting him down in a chair while he readied a some tea and a few slices of toast.

"What did you have for dinner, love?" John asked, the pet name falling from his lips easily.

Sherlock felt himself blush for the millionth time that day and shrugged. John brought him a cup of water and leaned in close to whisper into his ear. It made the hairs stand up on Sherlock's neck in a pleasing manner.

"You've just got to take better care of yourself," John said, kissing Sherlock's neck and breathing against him, "because you're mine to look after now, yeah?"

Sherlock swallowed and gripped John's arm.

"I'm sorry tonight went all pear shaped, I missed you terribly," John murmured against the soft skin behind Sherlock's ear.

"Y-you saw me this morning," Sherlock said, as though John could have possibly forgot, "at the Met. I always bring you coffee."

"Oh, yes," John replied, quirking a smile and running one hand up into Sherlock's hair, "how did I forget?"

"You're an old man, is how," Sherlock teased.

John huffed out a laugh, making Sherlock shiver, and kissed his neck again. "Mmm, and you're stuck with me."

The kettle went off just as Sherlock started to veritably melt in John's arms and he whimpered when John drew away.

"I'm adding extra milk and you're drinking it all, understand?" John said as he stirred sugar into the mug as well.

Sherlock let his eyes drift closed as he waited and John chuckled at how soft and vulnerable the man looked. Weeks, mere weeks in and he was so overflowing with affection that he thought he'd never breathe right again. It seemed impossible to him that he'd only known the man for several months, they fit together so perfectly after all.

The toast popped up, breaking him from his unabashed staring, and he slathered it in butter and jam before cutting it into small triangles and bringing it and the tea to the table. He reached across the table and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's curls and Sherlock butted his hand like a particularly contented cat.

"Eat this up now and I'll run you a bath," he said.

Sherlock breathed deeply and opened his eyes, running his nose across John's palm slowly. "Can I eat in the bath?"

"Don't see why not," John said, "as long as you don't fall asleep partway through."

Sherlock shook his head, not as sleepy as he was pleasantly sated. He rose from his seat slowly and picked up his mug of tea and plate of toast and followed John into the loo.

"I was thinking," he said, mouth full of toast in a way John reckoned he'd be annoyed at in years to come, "that you really ought to move in."

John grinned and started the water. "You think so?"

"It's only prudent. You spend almost every night here anyhow so it would save you time going home to redress every morning. Besides, you hate your flat."

"You're right about that," John said, crossing the room to where Sherlock was sat on the closed toilet lid and starting to unbutton his shirt for him.

"And then I can use your microscope," Sherlock said. "It's much better than mine."

"Oh, is that it?" John teased as he waited for Sherlock to lick the jam from his fingers so he could remove his shirt. "You're using me for my equipment."

Sherlock looked shocked for a moment before realising he was kidding and smiling in an incredibly lopsided and soft way. John smiled back at him and knelt to remove his posh leather shoes.

"It's not bad that you have a key to the morgue either. Besides, you're equipment tends to please me," Sherlock replied, wriggling a bit.

"Is that so?" John asked, sharky grin spreading across his lips as he removed Sherlock's shoes and socks and reached forward to undo his zip.

"Mmm," Sherlock said, letting his head loll back as John gripped his thighs and stood. "Quite pleasing."

"Up with you," John said, taking Sherlock's hands, "vixen. And don't think you're getting out of drinking that tea."

Sherlock stood and let John remove his trousers and pants and then slipped into the warm water with a sigh, turning the tap off and settling in. He reached his hand out and wiggled his fingers and John pressed the mug into them and sat at the side of the tub to lather up a flannel. 

"It's too milky," Sherlock said, sipping the tea as John ran the flannel over his back slowly. 

John continued to wash Sherlock's pliant body as he drank the tea and then started back in on the toast and when he made it to massaging the flannel along Sherlock's inner thighs the man had finished both and was laying back with his shoulders against the tile. He moaned and shifted and John swatted him lightly.

"None of that," John said. "You'll get what you want soon enough."

"Soon enough is a subjective term," Sherlock sighed, rolling his hips. "I wanted you in that alley."

"And I wanted you a bit more sober and not liable to pass out on me," John said. "Is this okay?"

Sherlock nodded as John ran the flannel between his legs and over his bollocks, his cock twitching its own "oh, yes" in response.

"And this?" John asked, letting the flannel go and grasping his bollocks. 

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, shifting down in the tub and spreading his legs.

"And this?" John asked, rubbing his finger in circles against Sherlock's arsehole.

Sherlock moaned and let his eyes fall closed, totally overcome with lust and practically aching for contact.

"And what about this?" John asked, leaning forward to kiss along Sherlock's jaw.

"Please, John," Sherlock panted.

"Alright," John conceded. "Up and out. Let's get into bed."

Sherlock climbed out of the bath with a little help and stretched as John dried him off. He was buzzing as John got him onto the bed.

"Can I take you?" John asked, kissing Sherlock's neck as he knelt over him, the fact that he was still fully clothed making Sherlock shiver.

"Please," came the response.

John went for the bedside table and pulled out a condom and some lube before undressing and folding his clothes carefully. By that point Sherlock was watching him with hungry eyes and fisting his own cock, a move that he knew was sure to drive John mad.

"Alright, you horrible tease, open those gorgeous legs for me," John said, finally settling back onto the bed.

He pressed a slick finger to Sherlock's arsehole and teased him open, inserting one, two, then three fingers at a much slower rate than Sherlock deemed necessary. Luckily for Sherlock, John was a doctor and wouldn't hurry things along even if he was begged.

John rolled the condom onto his aching prick and poured a bit of lube onto it, stroking himself once before positioning himself over Sherlock and pressing gently to him.

"Now, John, now," Sherlock insisted. 

John pushed into him halfway, Sherlock's body readily sucking him in, and then pulled out a bit before pushing in again gently.

"Christ," he moaned, "you're warm."

Sherlock took in a shaking sigh, gripping John's biceps, and rolled his hips up to meet John's thrusts. John bent down to kiss him and they fucked like that, slow and steady, until they were both rigid with intent and then faster if no less steady. 

Sherlock reached between them, jerking his cock and swearing under his breath as John came and stilled. He whimpered when John pulled out but it was hushed by a wet kiss as John's fingers pressed into him and ran circles round his prostate. 

John kissed him harder and pressed down, not caring in the least that it was taking much longer than usual due to the alcohol. He had the most gorgeous man in the world beneath him and he wouldn't want to ever be anywhere else. 

Sherlock started to grunt, short quiet things that matched up with John rubbing across his prostate, and thrust his hips up. 

"I can't," he panted, "it's right there but I can't."

John moved down the bed and took Sherlock's bollocks in his mouth as he continued to fuck him mercilessly with his fingers. He hummed around them and pulled off with a smack before taking them back in. Sherlock arched off the bed and whined high in his throat and started to come, hand moving fast on his prick as John hummed again and held his bollocks in his mouth even as they pulled up and tight to Sherlock's body.

_____

That night as they curled together under the covers, John running his fingers through Sherlock's sweat-damp hair, they felt closer than they ever had.

"I'm glad she tried to kiss you," Sherlock said, voice a low rumble.

John snorted and kissed his forehead.

"I am," Sherlock explained, "because now everyone knows."

"That we aren't just shagging?" John asked, holding Sherlock tight.

"That we aren't just shagging," Sherlock agreed.

A few minutes later Sherlock spoke up again, this time it was a whisper. "I'm sorry I used to hate you."

"Oh," John said sleepily, "don't worry about all that. You were just jealous of me."

"Was not," Sherlock whispered absently. "Well, maybe a little."

"Go to sleep now," John urged. 

Sherlock breathed deeply, stretching out his legs, and did just that.

_____

The next morning Sherlock rode with John to John's flat and stretched out on his bed while John showered and dressed. He'd always felt like an interloper in that space and it was strange to him that now, just as it was to be John's no more, he finally felt comfortable. He'd always seen it as the place John took other people for sex, the bed itself leaving him unhinged, but that was over now. John was his.

"Ready?" John asked after he was clean and fully dressed.

Sherlock looked up and took the paracetamol he was offered and the glass of water and sat up to drink them down, then followed John out to the kerb.

"We can move my things tonight if you're still interested in-" John started.

"Consider it done." Sherlock was already on his phone tapping out a message to his brother. He did owe Sherlock a favour after all.

"Does this mean your brother is going to pack up my porn collection?" John asked with a long suffering sigh.

"I'm sure he'll send one of his lackeys," Sherlock replied.

John held his hand out for a cab and Sherlock effectively tuned him out as he said, "I'm not sure if that's worse."

They made it to the Met in record time and for the first, though not at all last, time walked into the building hand in hand. 

_____

It only took a few weeks before the looks of surprise, and scandal from the older members, turned to sighs and eye rolls. By then it was obvious that the unstoppable force of Sherlock Holmes and the immovable object of John Watson were working together to make their lives as close to living hell as possible. Whether snogging in the men's like a pair of teenagers or bending the rules to the point of near fracture, they had something for everyone.

The solve rate tripled in the first year, however, and soon everyone knew that no matter how troublesome it might be to work with the genius and his doctor it had to be done for the greater good. 

Greg was the most affected by this and held it as a personal insult for a while, why Sherlock had to take HIS pathologist he didn't know, but long before he was John and Sherlock's joint best man in a small ceremony in Sussex he knew there could be no other way. The two were simply stuck on each other so, as he saw his precinct rise up as the one with the highest solve rate in London, if not the country, he accepted wholeheartedly the unorthodox situation he was put in.

They did get married in Sussex five years later, Greg standing by, and lived about as happily ever after as anyone thus far has seemed to manage. And that made sense. They were meant for each other, after all, and together nothing could stop them.


End file.
